


A different kind of appetite

by Baryshnikov



Series: Spoiled Fruit [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eating, Food, Hand Feeding, M/M, Pomegranates, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Hunger came in many forms.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Spoiled Fruit [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616770
Comments: 2
Kudos: 108





	A different kind of appetite

Harry sighed, sharp and uncomfortable, as he dug his heels into the floor. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening, staying in and reading the latest edition of Quidditch Weekly. What it certainly was _not_ supposed to be, was arduous and demanding and interrupted by constant distractions, especially distractions of such an _appetitive_ nature. He sighed again, louder this time, as though his repeated glares and deep exhales would somehow get Tom, who was sitting oh-so-casually opposite, to stop being such a distraction, because it was always Tom who distracted him. 

Not that he was, infuriatingly, doing anything particularly _wrong_ as such. In fact, Tom’s only crime was that he was eating a pomegranate in the same room that Harry was attempting to read his magazine. Of course, even Harry could admit that, in itself, the act of eating wasn’t an indecent one, but somehow Tom still managed to cross a line of propriety that made Harry’s mouth dry and something begin to simmer in the base of his stomach. 

What didn’t help was that Tom had been eating the same fruit for a good twenty minutes now, but was still, somehow, only half-way through; in the beginning, Harry hadn’t looked, in part, because he hadn’t noticed, and, in part, because it was hardly unusual. Now, though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Not when Tom kept dipping his fingers back inside the cracked shell, sinking them into the flesh and digging as deep as his knuckle, before crooking those fingers and easing out a measure of those pretty, lacquered, seeds. 

Then, and always with a glance in Harry’s direction, Tom scooped them into his mouth with an action that should have been mechanical but was, somehow, infused with a delicacy typically reserved for ballet dancers. Quite frankly it was sickening. And the whole performance—because that was what it amounted to—was inappropriate, bordering on outright erotic, especially given Tom let his fingers linger in his mouth as he sucked the juice off them one by one. 

“Must you do that?” Harry said, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them; his eyes betraying his interest by refusing to leave Tom’s hands. Instead, keeping Harry watching as Tom raised them once again to his mouth, the crook of his fingers filled with another quantity of arils. Just as before, Tom tipped those pretty red gems into his mouth, and Harry shamefully watched them collect on his tongue before Tom snapped it back and started to slowly chew.

They held each other’s gaze until Tom swallowed, hard and deliberate. 

“A man has to eat when he’s hungry,” said Tom eventually, as he licked a long trail of juice that had slid down his ring finger; the tip of his tongue wet and pointed as he traced the creases and grooves of his skin, chasing each stripe of pink. When he reached the very tip of his finger, Tom paused, and glanced up towards Harry; his eyes glistened the black chocolate colour they only went when he wanted something. 

“And I’m hungry, Harry,” he said, holding Harry’s gaze as he enunciated every syllable with staggering gravity; each letter weighted infinitely more than the last so that the sentence dragged low and heavy on Tom’s tongue. Without precisely meaning to, Harry shifted his legs—parting them, and placing down his magazine, after all, he wasn’t going to read it now. 

“You must be too,” Tom continued lethargically when Harry didn’t say anything to interrupt. “So hungry,” he repeated, this time softer, almost sweet, as though he was musing to himself over the philosophical nature of starvation. He left a pause for Harry to reply, but he didn’t; choosing instead to watch in silence, with a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, as Tom shifted, unfolding his legs and spreading his shoulders just so. Like that, he was undeniably exposed, rather like a cat rolling onto its belly and demanding attention. 

The indecency of the sight made Harry looked down at the floor and tried to pretend that something as attractive as Tom was not sitting there with his fingers slicked with saliva and his shirt tantalisingly unbuttoned at his throat—showing off just enough skin to give justification to ill-intentions. Not that Tom acknowledged what he was doing; he just shifted, making himself more comfortable in the chair and sucking his fingers until there was scarcely a drip of juice remaining. 

“You want a piece?” Tom offered, forcing himself back into Harry’s vision, as he delicately held out the crook of his pale fingers that were once again filled with a trove of wine-coloured gems. Harry shook his head, and Tom quirked an eyebrow before going back to pouring them into his mouth. 

For a while there was silent stillness; perpetuated by Harry’s staring, and punctuated by Tom’s eating. 

“What if I’m hungry for something else?” Harry said suddenly, speaking steadily, and trying to keep his tone firmer than he felt inside, and trying to pronounce each syllable until it rang out across the room like the clink of a crystal glass. As he spoke, Harry raised his head again and met Tom’s gaze; it was warm—hot even—and the lights above them transposed the black speckles in Tom’s irises with flecks of gold dust. 

Tom smiled. “Well,” he said, spreading his legs ever so slightly wider, “the result of that, rather depends on _what_ you’re hungry for, Harry.” Tom continued to smile as he spoke so confidently; his mouth stretching around the words in a way that should have been obscene, but instead increased the heat that was flaring up in the base of Harry’s stomach, and made his hands twitch involuntarily. Harry dropped them to the seat of the chair, and absently traced over the cover of his magazine—feeling the gloss of the pages beneath his fingertips—in a poor attempt to soothe his nerves. 

For, despite his best imitation, this wasn’t Harry’s natural environment. He didn’t have Riddle’s smooth instincts and predatory prowess of language, nor did he possess that certain detachment to tantalising situations that Tom always wore, as though his emotions were entirely disconnected from his brain’s circuit board. Rather, Harry was the opposite, sitting here, with a thick as buttercream blush already coating his cheeks, and his every thought catching on hooks inside his brain. 

He inhaled deeply, and tried to swallow down the rising apprehensions, after all, he’d initiated this contest to get what he was starting to desperately want and save himself from an entirely wasted evening, and so, now he had to play his move. Harry licked his lips and dropped his eyes down to the carpet again; it was slightly crinkled in the middle from too many people catching their toes on the edge. Without looking up, he spoke.

“That depends what’s on the menu,” he said, “doesn’t it, Tom?”

Tom’s smile spread wider, reaching from the corners of his mouth right up to his eyes. “I suppose it does,” he replied, even as his fingers dug back inside split in the fruit’s skin. The sound of cracking skin and the squishing of fruit-flesh was the only sound in the room, as Tom continued to work his fingers, pivoting them in a way that made Harry’s throat dry. Tom looked up from his task to see him staring, and he licked his own lips. 

“So, why don’t you come over here …” Tom murmured, “…and take a look?”

It was both an invitation and a challenge all rolled up into one simple sentence, and Harry wasn’t one to refuse either. So, with far more confidence than he felt, he got up. Though, as he took those tentative steps forward, Harry kept his eyes on Tom; his legs compelling him forward even when his chest was bubbling with nerves, and each step of bare feet against the carpet, despite not making a sound, felt so significant. 

With neither any elegance nor any finesse, Harry hauled himself onto the sofa that Tom was sitting on, or, more specifically, he hauled himself on top of Tom; spreading himself over his lap and pushing him against the back of the sofa, one hand curled around his shoulder and the other steady at his hip. Tom didn’t attempt to resist—that wasn’t his nature—he preferred to strike when people least expected it, and that usually meant letting them think they were in control. 

When they were this close together, Harry could feel _everything_ , from the heat of Tom’s skin to the steady throb of his pulse. Like this, Harry also couldn’t help his gaze dropping to Tom’s mouth; the lips were parted slightly and still slicked with cerise coloured juice; on other people, such a look might have been pretty—innocent even—but on Tom, it just looked brutal in the most refined way possible. His lips darkened so that his teeth looked whiter, and his smile seemed hungrier, as it curved upward at the corners in a mockery of virtue.

If it were possible for a mere human to personify temptation, then it would take the form of Tom when he was in this, shamelessly indulgent, mood. For, like this, his body, and indeed his entire disposition held a certain languidness; it was sewed into the way that he stretched his spine, and let his eyes wander wherever they pleased, so too, was there this _heaviness_ to his physicality that contained the same sultry stickiness as a hot, wet, summer. Harry could feel it in Tom’s palms, just the weight of them as they settled on his waist, holding him exactly where he wanted. 

Because, Harry might play with control; occasionally taking its transient hands and making use of its secrets, but Tom _embodied_ control. It was embedded into his skin, running like threads of diamonds and rivulets of gold, to the extent that even when he was effectively stuck, underneath Harry, against the sofa, he could snap his fingers and Harry would still give him whatever he wanted.

But Tom wasn’t wanting anything. He was happy enough to have lured Harry over to him with the promise of sticky lips and the flavour of pomegranates on his tongue, so Harry could probably do whatever he wanted to him.

Without thinking too hard on his motivations, Harry eased the pomegranate out from Tom’s fingers like a parent removing a child’s favourite toy; taking his time to feel the weight of it, and the texture of the smooth, shiny exterior, as though it was coated with a glossed veneer. Then holding Tom’s eyes, he dipped his own fingers into the fruit. 

The flesh was surprisingly warm and squishy against his fingers, and Harry found himself swallowing because this felt so deeply inappropriate. He almost felt dirty as he curled and crooked his fingers to gather up those pretty little jewels that were just as warm and soft against his skin. Tom’s eyes stayed bright as they grazed over Harry’s fingers—watching so carefully—before working their way back up to his face; his brow quirked with interested but the lazy smile stayed firm on his mouth. 

He liked what he saw.

That much was obvious from the way that Tom leaned back into the curve of the chair, his head resting against the back so that the curvature of his throat was prominent, and Harry would have to lean ever so close if he wanted Tom to eat from his hands. But Harry was a fool for Tom, and he’d do anything to feel the softness of his lips, and the heat of his mouth, and even the scrape of his teeth against his fingers. 

So, Harry leant forward, a collection of seeds balanced on the pads of his fingers, just far enough from the tip that Tom would have to use his tongue to take them. And for one, long, stretched-out moment Tom held his gaze—the frayed edge to his breathing more obvious that he’d surely like—and his eyes heavy. It was enough to give Harry a flicker of doubt that he’d consigned Tom to a role he was unwilling to play, but at the same time, he wanted to watch Tom do it anyway. 

He got his wish. For, Tom dropped his eyes away from Harry’s momentarily, before raising them again, and taking those pretty seeds with his tongue; the tip so hot as it pressed against Harry’s fingertips and curled each seed into his mouth. All the time watching Harry with those liquid brown eyes, the colour of rotting fruit. 

Tom chewed slowly, still watching, and it made a thrill rise up in Harry’s stomach. After all, there was a genuine buzz to be had in getting Tom to eat from his fingers like—dare he say—a clever little pet. Though Harry knew he’d been a fool to entertain that notion, for, Tom might play at being idle and indolent—domesticated even—just this cultivated thing that sat around looking irresistible, but he couldn’t eradicate the savagery inside him. That feral creature whose eyes glittered, and whose tongue licked away the saccharinity left lingering on his lips. 

Finally, Tom swallowed, his throat moving with a hypnotic smoothness of motion that Harry could have watched forever. But there were far more _pressing_ issues currently at hand, and Harry found himself—quite subconsciously he’d claim—shifting forward and grinding slowly against Tom until he heard him suck in oxygen between his teeth. His hands retaliating by scraping up along the length of Harry’s waist, dragging his fingers unhurriedly, and making Harry’s shirt bunch up so that it rubbed against his skin; fuelling that heat that was unspooling so low in his stomach. 

Tom’s hand continued to slide higher until it was on the back of Harry’s neck, the palm heavy on the nape and the sticky fingers threading into his hair, pulling Harry closer to him so that their lips were nearly touching. This close, the universe felt like it had shrunk down to just that room, just that sofa, and it was so quiet and so slow, and Harry could smell that tart sweetness that lingered on Tom’s skin; it made his mouth water and his jaw just ache to be kissed. 

Tom indulged him. 

Though his particular slant oozed with the same provocativeness and lack of satisfaction that it always did. For the first kiss was, as always, tentative and sensual; just Tom’s lips pressed momentarily against the corner of Harry’s mouth. It was the sort of lingering thing from vintage movies, back when seduction was an artform and every man was a connoisseur of taste, and it made Harry crave something _more_. 

As if to deliberately irritate him, Tom continued to kiss him, but never on his lips. Instead, he took his time tasting the corner of Harry’s mouth, and the thin line that led to his jaw, and along that soft line to his neck. From there, Tom just followed the curve—always slow, always smooth, always _shy_ , though, if left to his own devices, Tom was anything but shy.

It was all an act to make Harry want to help him; to make Harry feel possessive and protective, and as soon as he let his guard down, Tom would strike like a snake hidden beneath a dune of sand. Sinking his teeth into something soft and supple like the base of Harry’s neck or his inner thigh, making him beg for it because, by then, he’d be so worked up that the only thing that mattered was the taste and feel of Tom’s tongue. 

“What are you hungry for, Harry?” Tom murmured, interrupting his thoughts as his mouth reached Harry’s right ear, his teeth catching lightly on the shell in a way that had Harry shuddering, and swallowing down every thought that he’d ever had, though all of them were melting into the folds of his brain never to be seen again. All because Tom’s mouth was hot on his skin, and his tone was slow and unlike rich velvet, and the sticky fingers at Harry’s neck were practically burning through his skin. 

Harry swallowed again and raised his head out of that soft crook where Tom’s neck met his shoulder; he met Tom’s eyes, squirming as the spokes of wanting began to turn again, flipping his stomach again and again, because Tom was looking at him like he was starving. And perhaps, it was that hot spark in his eyes that seemed to swallow the world, or, perhaps it was simply because Harry liked to touch, but either way, Harry’s hands slid down Tom’s waist, before rubbing along the line of Tom’s belt, his fingers working their way into the buckle.

“Well, Harry?” Tom murmured again, rougher this time, his tongue catching on the words as his breathing hitched, and his tone dropped low, “what _are_ you hungry for?” 

“You, Tom.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this was rambling, uneven, and frankly didn't do justice to the themes it flirted with, so apologies, I'll probably try something similar again soon.


End file.
